CHAPTER SIX

ALL-OR-NONE LAW

( — the rule that the size of the action potential is unaffected by increases in the intensity of stimulation beyond the threshold level. )

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          RHIANNON IS PRETTY DARN AWARE SHE'S A COWARD. She doesn't need other people to remind her of it, especially her parents, as it's something she has been coming to terms with for a long time, ever since she was younger; still, she knows she's not avoiding Connor because she's scared of him—she's avoiding him because she doesn't know how she'd deal with having to be face to face with the guy.

          There are plenty of things she doesn't know how to deal with. It's not even like she's not aware there's stuff that textbooks don't explain, as every situation is different for each individual that experiences it, and she doubts there's any scientific paper titled 'How to Properly Face a Guy You Never Actually Dated, But He Still Found a Way of Helping You Ruin Your Own Life'. It sounds more like something she'd read online as a satirical article of some sort, with memes scattered all over it.

          She's pretty sure she's on the verge of a meltdown all over again—and over the same thing, which is what makes it a lot harder to bear.

          She likes textbook cases, even though they can't always be applied to real situations. She likes studying them because they feel cold and distant, leading her to think she'll know how to act if she's ever stuck under those conditions, but she has something those clinical observations, plastered onto pages of textbooks and manuals and embellished with medical and biological terms, don't have.

          It's her damn humanity.

          Jude says that happens to be what makes them more than walking, breathing cases or patient files, but Rhiannon feels her mind has always been a lot more . . . mechanical and technical than his—which is not necessarily a bad thing for him. It's one of the things she loves the most about him, how he manages to constantly remind himself he's human, along with all of them, and not a machine that merely processes information.

         He remembers we're active when we do it—it's why we have our differences, why not everyone has an equal response to the same environmental stimuli, and why we don't always have the same response to those exact stimuli on various evaluations.

         She shoves all of that mindless nonsense aside, arguing you can learn any behavior through processes of classical conditioning and social learning and maintain it through operant conditioning—your humanity can be ignored and, sometimes, she does it. Anything can be taught.

          The smoke she blows out of her mouth isn't cigarette smoke. It's a gelid day today, with a snowstorm threatening to fall at any given moment, and not even her heavy coat manages to keep her warm enough to make her stop shivering for more than five seconds straight.

          The sunlight tiptoes through the cracks in her skin and lips, and perhaps it would be a nice, innovative way of letting some light glide through the spaces between her ribs and get rid of all the corruption filling her rib cage, but Rhiannon can barely feel the tips of her fingers—or any other part of her body, for that matter.

          Things would certainly be a lot easier if she managed to not give a damn more often, even though Jude says it's a good thing to let her feelings show every once in a while. Being a machine sometimes proves to be more useful and even more adaptive, but how will she benefit from it in the long run? What's the point of it all?

          Isla has taken a break from college today, choosing to skip all her lectures to study so she can finally stop skipping the lectures, which is the all too common paradox you see in college students, and Rhiannon feels strangely empty without having her around. It's not like they have a lot of courses in common and her company is usually Jude, which isn't entirely surprising to anyone at this point, but it's never a good feeling to wake up in an empty dorm room.

          She likes to study at the local diners instead of the library or even their dorm room, as the background noises from the restaurants help her focus a lot better and a lot easier—or so she says; Rhiannon once joined her to see if she could do the same, but left the diner with a massive headache . . . and not for studying too much. She's even immune to the pungent odor of fried food and milkshakes, which Rhiannon will never stop being astounded by.

          At least some families are keeping it together. Apparently, Gabriel Guerreiro, Isla's father, has narrowed his ghostwriter choices down to three candidates and he'll be interviewing them all throughout the course of the current day; Rhiannon is entirely sure how he's going to have enough time for everything, as the man, being the chancellor, is always awfully busy, and people will surely find out he has a ghostwriter in no time.

          Now, Rhiannon isn't into the writing business, but she thinks ghostwriters aren't supposed to reveal their identities to the outside world, much like the people they work for shouldn't be announcing their books will be written by one; nevertheless, Gabriel seems to always know what he's doing, thinking before taking action, which, fortunately, is a trait Isla has inherited.

          Rhiannon wants to pretend she, too, knows what she's doing. It's not nearly as easy as Isla and Matteo make it look like.

          Beatrice Northrop has emailed her the date and the place where her interview will take place and she carries a copy of the information with her wherever she goes, as if there was even any way of her forgetting about it. It's actually borderline impossible, as it's what everyone is talking about, with the project having reached social media and news outlets (though everyone still refers to it as Project Oxygen, which gets on Rhiannon's nerves—that definitely is not what they've named it, though no one knows the thought process behind it or what the experiment is about), and there's no plausible way of escaping from the hype.

          She regretted signing up for that damn thing as soon as she did it. Though it was fun at first picturing the look on her family's faces as soon as they knew how she's choosing to spend her free time, she remembered she only did it to get Matteo to shut up and not because she's minimally interested in it—not even the supposed monetary reward Beatrice mentioned sounds appealing, as it's not certain and they're not rewarding anyone just for showing up.

          It's logical and that's how Rhiannon likes things to be, but psychology isn't supposed to make sense. It can be so abstract at times, when compared to exact sciences like Mathematics and Biology, and Rhiannon likes to be certain of things, thank you very much (that margin of error in statistics irks her and constantly crawls under her skin, but that's something she usually manages to ignore).

          Jude's whereabouts are currently unknown and Rhiannon can't help but feel ridiculous by realizing how lost she feels when he's not around. It can't possibly be healthy; though she has been making an effort to not depend on him too much, as he has a life outside of their relationship (whatever it is, even if she doesn't want to overthink it, not right now), she never knows what to do. It's not common for him to skip lectures, not anymore, and, after watching him doze off and fall asleep in the auditoriums countless times during the past week, she finally admits she's worried.

          Well, worried is an understatement. He's entitled to his privacy, but there are certain things Rhiannon wishes he'd share with her, such as stuff that might be troubling him enough to make him miss out on hours of sleep during the night and having to make up for them during the day. It's not in him to pull such moves and she doesn't want to place all the blame on Project Oxygen, as it hasn't even started yet and, as far as she knows, his interview was scheduled for the following week.

          The project is changing them. Isla hasn't signed up for it, thankfully, but Rhiannon knows she doesn't need the money and is too busy to be taking part in such trivial things. Her father supports it, or so Rhiannon thinks, considering he hasn't heard any staff member badmouth it, but Isla enjoys reminding people they don't have to share the same beliefs regarding everything—and they don't.

         Sighing softly to herself, raising a nearly frozen hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, she stands up from the icy concrete bench where she has been sitting for the past fifteen minutes She almost turned into an ice statue herself while waiting for Jude and/or Matteo to show up, but, since they're not here and her second lecture of the day was cancelled, she has a free period to go warm herself up at the café.

          She doesn't even mind hanging out with Gabriella, Laura, Hailey and Sutton. After what happened a couple weeks ago, in that same place, Rhiannon has developed some sort of affection towards the four of them, as they cared enough about her to stick around and see if she needed help. Though she was certainly embarrassed after having made a fool out of herself in front of them, instantly breaking with the mere uttering of Connor's name, she was still immensely thankful, deep down.

         Not that she'll ever admit it out loud. She's still not sure whether they can be trusted or not, but Isla likes them and she tends to be a competent character judge, so Rhiannon may or may not be willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

         She sees him on the way to the café. Unfortunately, it isn't Matteo. It certainly isn't Jude either.

          "Rhiannon," he greets, taking off his glasses to hang them on the crown of his head. His white shirt is perfectly pressed under his coat, tucked inside his jeans, and the scent of his cologne is overwhelming, as strong as if he had taken a bath in it. With his dark hair pulled back into a bun and short stubble decorating his jawline, Connor Duncan looks almost the same as he did the last time she saw him. It makes her stomach churn. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

          "Connor," she breathes, with the edges of her vision fading to black. If she wasn't sitting down, she would have lost her balance, with all the blood rushing away from her head.

           "Hi." He shoves his hands inside his pockets. "I had been looking for you."

          She lets out a nervous laugh, with a high note that sounds almost hysterical. "Really?" He nods. "Wow. After all this time, after all you did . . . you're still looking for me?"

          His lips twist into a wry smile. "I'm sure you know why. I'm involved with . . . what do you call it . . . Project Oxygen, isn't it? I'll be helping Northrop and McCall go through applications after the interviews are finished, since I'm financing their investigation and providing lodging to the participants. They thought it'd be best to let me be here."

          "To stalk me?" She narrows her eyes. "As if you hadn't already caused enough mayhem?"

          Connor laughs, shaking his head, and the sound sends shivers up her spine. "Rhea. You haven't changed a bit, have you?" He tilts his head to the side when she doesn't answer. "Nevertheless, I think we'll have plenty of time to catch up. I can't wait to hear what you've been up to ever since Papa Ford and Mama Ford kicked you out of their house and their family. How's Steph? I heard she got married."

          "She did"—she sighs—"last month. I didn't get to be a bridesmaid. Ezra was the best man. Jude's brother."

          "Jude?" Rhiannon's shoulders stiffen. She certainly doesn't like the bitter tone in his voice as he says his name. "Well. I guess I'll see the two of you around, then." He briefly winks at her. "You'll know where to find me."

          Once he's gone, Rhiannon almost lasts through the rest of the morning and lunchtime without crying. She breaks after leaving the cafeteria, realizing she has lost her appetite, and drags herself across the campus towards the building where the chancellor's office is located, along with the Deans', where her interview will take place.

          She regains control of her emotions right before stepping inside, not wanting to give these people the pleasure of seeing her crack, and wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes and from her cheeks as she pushes open the glass door with her shoulder. The air inside is considerably warmer when compared to the yard, and she's forced to take off her top jacket, carefully setting it over a burgundy armchair.

          Her legs are numb, with spiders crawling up them, so she decides against sitting down, leaning her back against a wall. The voices and the sounds of papers being stapled and phone-calls being placed on hold quickly fade into background noise, and, soon, they even turn into white noise. The static tickles Rhiannon's ears and she shuts her eyes tight, so tight they threaten to catch on fire.

          "Rhea," Isla calls, pulling her out of her misery, and Rhiannon lifts her stare from her Converse sneakers to look at her when she's close enough, rubbing her arms. "Hey. What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

          "I'm . . ." she blabbers, briefly glancing up at the guy who walked in with Isla. His dark hair, reaching his chin, has been slicked back to give it more volume than it probably has, with light-brown skin glowing softly under the lights, and, when their eyes meet, cognac and onyx, he looks away. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I was just waiting for you."

          "You could have waited for me in our room."

          It's a lie. Obviously. She looks up, eyes filled with tears, at the same time as Gabriel's voice asks someone named Rowan to follow him inside his office, and the stranger does just that (wearing a white shirt, jeans and combat boots), leading Rhiannon to think perhaps that's one of the ghostwriters.

          Not that it matters.

          Rhiannon has time to sit down, muscles aching with exhaustion, but it's not like she has a lot of time to relax, as Beatrice Northrop exits her own office, holding a chart close to her chest. Her heels echo against the floor as she walks, but Rhiannon isn't sure if that's really the sound of her shoes or if it's the sound of her own heartbeat thundering beneath their feet.

          "Miss Ford?" Beatrice calls, and Rhiannon springs up from her seat, heart hammering furiously against her sternum. "Ah, fantastic. Thanks for being here for your interview. Now, if you'd follow me . . ."